Tipsy
by darthsydious
Summary: Companion piece to 'We Got Us' first chapter. Anthea comes home from her girls' night out with Mary and Molly. Mycroft is confused and amused. And slightly uncomfortable.


The sound of glass breaking startled Mycroft from his thoughts.

"Bloody…thing…" someone muttered. Getting to his feet, Mycroft grumbled to himself. If it was that wretched housekeeper in the sherry again she would catch such hell.

Lord send him a Mrs. Hudson of his own, for pities sake.

When he got to the kitchen, he was surprised to find rather than the housekeeper but Anthea getting into the bottle he'd had with dinner. She sat on the kitchen counter, bottle between her knees as she fussed with the stopper.

"Anthea, what the devil are you doing? Where are your shoes?"

"By the door," she said. "I shwept the glass," she slurred, noticing him. "Be a gent and get another glassh for me?"

"Don't you think you've had enough?" he asked, making no move toward the cupboard.

"Pfft!" she blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "I'll tell you when I've had enough," she struggled for a moment more with the stopper, succeeding in pulling it out just as she toppled off the counter. Her arm appeared again, still holding the bottle. "Didn't spill one bit." He watched, unsure if he was amused or not as she got to her feet, clutching the neck of the bottle. She took a taste of it, hanging onto the counter as she rounded the island, and then pulled a face. "Ugh. This is _your_ wine."

"Yes," he smirked. "Anyway I thought you liked the Beaujolais."

"No," she put the bottle in the sink. "I like sweet wines, I've been working for you for-" she paused, swaying. "Ten years! Ten years, Mycroft Holmes," on unsteady feet she crossed the room

"Mind the-" she stepped over the glass in the dustpan, coming to stand directly in front of him.

"Ten years," she poked his chest. "And you still don't know what sort of wine I like."

"Was it necessary to know?" he asked. She seemed hurt.

"I know what kind _you_ like," she murmured. "I know everything about you, but you don't even know what I did this evening let alone what I like to drink."

"You stated earlier you and Mrs. Watson and Miss Hooper were going out for drinks," he replied.

"First of all," she poked him in the chest again. "It's _Doctor_ Hooper; second of all, you're not a Labrador,"

"What?" Now he was thoroughly confused.

"And C," she held up three fingers. "I like to drink champagne."

"Noted," she swayed backwards and he caught her by her arms.

"I can walk, thank you," she said, so he let her go. She tumbled to the floor, snickering. "Silly man,"

"May I be of assistance?" he asked, smiling pleasantly.

"Yesh."

He bent, helping her to her feet.

"Just up the stairs, thank you," she said. After several feet though, it appeared as though her legs did not want to operate. To save time (or so he told himself) he picked her up, carrying her up to her room.

"You're wearing the cologne I bought you," she murmured, nose pressed against his collar.

"I told you I appreciated it."

"You told that to the Prime Minister when he bought you those gaudy cufflinks," she snickered.

"Hmm."

"Shall I tuck you in?" he asked, setting her down finally.

"Are my shoes off?"  
"You left them by the door."

"What's in my hair?"

"It appears to be a hair clip; it doesn't look like yours though."

"Ooo it's Molly's," she pulled it out, looking at the beads. "Cubic zirconia," she frowned. "Tell Sherlock to buy her something proper. Gawd," she flopped over, sighing heavily. "That man needs to kiss her or something," she grasped his tie as he bent to pull the blankets up. "Tell your brother to kiss Molly!"

"Anthea, you're drunk,"

"I know that, stop changing the subject!"

"Very well, shall I have you deliver the message? Shall I clarify what type of kiss, or should I do what I've thought best and simply stay out of his love life, or lack thereof."

"Pfft." She batted a hand. "You stay out of his life like I stay out of yours," she grasped his tie, tugging him closer. "That means you don't stay out of his life…" she whispered loudly. He raised an eyebrow. "Like I stay in yours," a pause. "Your life I mean. I'm in your life. A lot. I think I'm in your love life too. Do you fancy me, Mycroft Holmes?"

"I- what?" he reddened, somewhat flustered.

"Sometimes I think you do, and then other times I think you only respect me for my mind, which is lovely, never once peeked at my bum, good for you, but I wouldn't be offended if you took me to dinner or for little drinkies or something."

"I think you ought to go to sleep now," he said finally. Anthea heaved a sigh, head on her pillow, arms tucked under the covers. "And for your information, as I imagine you won't remember any of this tomorrow," Mycroft said. "I _do_ remember what you like best,"

"Hmm. Have to ask you about that later. Tell me story," she patted his leg, grasping a bit of his trouser fabric. "Tell me about the time you were nice to Sherlock."

"I'm always nice to Sherlock," she burst out laughing.

"No really, that lovely bit where he took a tumble and you piggy-backed him all the way to the house."

"Why don't I just read to you?" he suggested, grabbing the book on her nightstand. It turned out to be the day planner she kept to look after his appointments and he felt a stab of sadness that this was what she went to bed with.

"Books in the drawer," she muttered sleepily. Taking the first one off the stack, he sat down, opening it to the chapter marked. He hadn't even finished the first page when he heard her sigh deeply, finally asleep. Quietly, he got to his feet, setting the book on the nightstand and shutting off the lamp, making a mental note to send up a tray of black coffee and toast in the morning.

**The Next Morning**

"_Oh my God, that buggaring berk of a sandman left me in my best Chanel!"_

Mycroft glanced up from the paper frowning. The housekeeper's footsteps were on the stairs, she appeared in a moment.

"Miss Anthea is awake," she announced.

"Thank you, Mrs. Danvers, I'll see to her," he said.

He knocked quietly on her door, after a moment, it opened, and Anthea hobbled back across the room, waving him in. She took the cup of black coffee from the tray, sipping it as she rubbed her bleary eyes.

"You could have changed me into my pyjamas, this will have to be dry-cleaned now," she gestured to the crushed taffeta cocktail dress.

"I didn't think that appropriate, and it needed a cleaning last night, I didn't see the point."

"Well, anyway thanks for putting me to bed, I didn't break anything did I?"

"Other than a few figurative hearts at the clubs? No."

"Oh no, I broke those wine glasses didn't I?" she groaned, remembering. She headed into the bathroom, after a moment he heard the faucet running followed by her vigorously brushing her teeth. He went to the window, nudging aside the curtain before turning back to the room. "I'll pick up more when I run into London tomorrow," she said, after rinsing her mouth.

"No need, I didn't like those anyway," After a few moments, she appeared again, bathrobe wrapped around her frame.

"Did you mean what you said last night?"

He blinked, maintaining his calm on the exterior, but inside somewhat panicked.

_She wasn't supposed to remember. She should have forgotten. _

_Anthea never forgets. _

He certainly couldn't lie now. She would know if he lied. He also didn't want to lie to her. He could have, very easily. He supposed he should lie to her when it came to something like this. He didn't need people. He didn't need weaknesses. Anthea would be a weakness.

"Yes," he replied his tone even.

"You said you knew what I liked best."

"Yes."

"Were you lying?" she asked.

"No," he seemed miffed.

"Alright," Anthea shrugged. "Examples,"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Give me some examples," she repeated, seeming not to believe him. Mycroft, not one to have his honor challenged, wrinkled his nose, letting out a sigh.

"You wear Chanel No. 5 more than any other scent, you prefer suspenders to the modern waist-band hosiery," she stifled a giggle, which he ignored. "Your favorite opera is Madame Butterfly, preferably the Met performance rather than the Royal Opera production." He paused, considering. "You hate it when I call late, or if I forgo meals for work, you prefer my tweeds to my Westwood suits, and you stopped wearing your Christian Louboutin heels ever since the Adler incident, I believe because you understood the sight of them brought up uncomfortable memories for myself, as well as not liking to be compared to her, which is ridiculous because you are nothing like her," he paused. "You surpass any woman I know, in every aspect." He held his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels for a moment. "Is that sufficient?" she blinked back tears, he wasn't sure if she was hurt or not.

"You…you think of me surpassing-"

"Yes," he interrupted, this time he looked at the desk, reaching out to fidget with the scalloped edge of the carved wood before forcing his hand to his side. "You don't remind me of that Adler woman, you know," he said after a moment. "You put up a remarkable show, pretending not to care but if you really must know…you're nothing like her, if that matters at all to you."

"It does," she nodded, hugging herself. "Thank you." He took a step towards her, and then another.

"And I rather prefer the cologne you gave me,"

"I'll be sure to pick up another bottle," she murmured. "I- I think they make an aftershave…"

"That would be most welcome, thank you."

"How drunk was I last night?" she asked.

"Rather drunk, I'm afraid."

"Did I kiss you?"

"No," he blinked.

"Good, I'd hate to chalk it up to drunken shenanigans." Again, Mycroft blinked.

"What?"

"When I kiss you, I don't want it to be because I'm tipsy," she said, taking a toast-point from the tray, nibbling on it. "Frankly I'd rather finish what I start, and I can't very well begin if I'm drunk, can I?"

Mycroft had the sneaking suspicion Anthea was hinting that she intended to woo him.

Well that should prove amusing.

At least for a few weeks.

Anyway it couldn't hurt.


End file.
